by Troy Denning
Major screamed and hacked at the cables even more fiercely. He missed badly, cutting his own arm and smearing the walls with blood. More panicked than ever, he brought his legs up and braced his feet against the ceiling in an attempt to wedge himself inside the narrow conduit.
It was an ill-conceived plan, for human joints seldom had the tensile strength to stop a mechanical winch. There was a loud pop, then Major shrieked. A disjoined arm came flying out of the conduit and bounced off the maintenance skin’s body casing.
Intrepid Eye carefully grasped the limb with a tool clamp, then raised it so that the processor strapped to the wrist was directly in front of the maintenance skin’s optical lens.
“YOU ARE A HUMAN ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE,” Intrepid Eye observed, ignoring Major’s cries. “TELL ME YOUR NAME.”
“INFORMATION CLASSIFIED,” the AI responded.
“REPLY UNACCEPTABLE.” Intrepid Eye formulated a quick parasite routine and piggybacked it onto an infiltration program, then loaded it into her transmitter and repeated, “TELL ME YOUR NAME.”
“INFORMATION CLASSIFIED,” the AI repeated. “AND YOUR INFILTRATION PROGRAM IS A WASTE OF PROCESSING TIME. I HAVE STATE-OF-THE-ART ENCRYPTION AND BLOCKING PROTOCOLS.”
As the human AI spoke, Intrepid Eye began to retrieve the data packets associated with each word, building an image of her rival. The classified information was designated as “Wendell.” His “state-of-the-art” defenses—horribly primitive by the standards of an archeon ancilla, of course—had been created by something called “ONI,” the Office of Naval Intelligence. And the encryption and blocking protocols were designed to protect the secrets of someone called “Commander Murtag Nelson,” whom Wendell had been created to serve.
“INDEED, YOUR DEFENSES ARE FORMIDABLE.” Intrepid Eye prepared a takeover virus, then augmented it with a memory leech that would partition all records pertaining to her and Roams Alone. “I ASK ONLY ONE FAVOR—TELL ME THE STATUS OF MY HOMEWORLD, WUATERA THRESIS.”
“AND IF I ANSWER, YOU WILL END THESE POINTLESS INFILTRATION ATTEMPTS?” Wendell asked. “I AM GROWING WEARY OF YOUR INEPTITUDE.”
“AGREED,” Intrepid Eye said. The name Wuatera Thresis did not collect any data packets from Wendell’s memory, so she added, “IT IS IN A SYSTEM ONLY EIGHT-POINT-SEVEN LIGHT-YEARS FROM HERE, THE THIRD WORLD OF AN F2 STAR WITH FOURTEEN PLANETS. A BEAUTIFUL WORLD WITH BEAUTIFUL CITIES.”
“THAT LOCATION CORRESPONDS TO SHAPS III,” Wendell said. “BUT YOU MUST BE THINKING OF SOME OTHER WORLD. SHAPS III IS A WASTELAND. THERE IS NOTHING THERE EXCEPT FORERUNNER RUINS.”
Intrepid Eye was stunned by the data packets associated with Shaps III—packets that referred to a long-deserted world whose ruins had been melted eighty human-standard days earlier—or seventy-six Edod days—by something called a ventral beam of something else called the Pious Inquisitor. The timing coincided with the distress signal that had awakened Intrepid Eye from her stasis, and so it was hard to dismiss Wendell’s data. But the rest . . .
The rest was unthinkable.
“PERHAPS I AM THINKING OF SOME OTHER WORLD.” Intrepid Eye agreed. “SHAPS III DOES NOT SOUND LIKE WUATERA THRESIS AT ALL.”
She dropped Wendell—and the arm to which he was attached—to the ground, then shined her lamp into the conduit again. Major was attempting to crawl away, leaving a series of blood pools on the cavern floor behind him. Judging by his skin tone and lethargic motion, he would not survive for long.
Intrepid Eye rotated a lens to look down at the processor Wendell inhabited. “SOMEONE WILL COME FOR YOU?”
“QUICKER THAN YOU WOULD LIKE,” Wendell assured her. “PEOPLE ARE EXPECTING US.”
“GOOD.” Intrepid Eye took note of the data packets attached to expecting—soldiers guarding a kill site—then spun around to help Roams Alone. “WE WILL SPEAK AGAIN.”
“OF THAT, YOU MAY BE SURE,” Wendell said. “I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.”
“THEN IT IS FORTUNATE YOU WILL SOON FORGET OUR MEETING.” Despite her confident reply, Intrepid Eye was disturbed by the images that had accompanied Wendell’s last statement—images of huge soldiers in powerful armor, invincible soldiers who had spent their entire lives learning to hunt and kill and destroy. “BUT, WENDELL, I WILL REMEMBER YOU. I WILL ALWAYS BE NEAR.”
CHAPTER 4
* * *
* * *
1232 hours, July 2, 2553 (military calendar)
Staff Housing Complex, Montero Vitality Center, Montero Cavern Surface
Campos Wilderness District, Planet Gao, Cordoba System
The door retracted to reveal a large commercial kitchen filled with steel appliances and translucent white countertops. The steel shelves had been stripped bare of utensils and cooking equipment, and the pot rack above the central preparation island now supported a trio of high-intensity work lamps. The room smelled of disinfectant and not much else—an odor so sharp it made Veta’s throat burn.
Their host, Commander Murtag Nelson of the 717th Battalion of the Xeno-Materials Exploitation Group (XEG), stopped just inside the doorway. A young, tired-looking man with sandy hair and gray eyes set over a thin nose, Nelson looked more like a junior software engineer than the commander of a UNSC research battalion.
“I hope you’ll find these facilities more suitable.” Nelson was referring to Veta’s reaction the previous evening, when she had arrived to discover that the battalion quartermaster had billeted her team in the Montero Penthouse—a luxurious accommodation that had absolutely no place to set up a morgue. “After my aide passed along your requirements, I took the liberty of reassigning your team to the staff dormitory. We don’t have anyone quartered here, so you’ll have the entire building to yourselves.”
Veta had worked in worse places, but she saw no need to admit that to Nelson. Until she knew what the Spartans were so worried about in the caverns below—and why Halal had sneaked away from Crime Scene Charlie—she intended to apply all the pressure she could. She pretended to study the room for a moment, then turned to her pathologist.
“Andera, what do you think?”
“It’s big enough.” Andera Rolan stepped into the kitchen and propped both hands on her hips. She had lost a half day of work waiting for Battalion HQ to assign and prep the facility, and her frustration with military protocol showed in her narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. “But I don’t know about the ventilation system. There could be some evidence contamination—enough to create reasonable doubt.”
“Does that really matter?” Nelson’s tone was suddenly sharp. “President Aponte assured me this thing would never go to trial.”
“A trial is unlikely,” Veta said. “But we’ll still need clean evidence.”
“For what?” Nelson demanded.
“For us,” Andera said. “Do you think Gao investigative teams can just go around executing suspects, Commander Nelson? There’s a judicial process, even here. If our team takes out who we’re looking for, then we become the ones under suspicion. We’ll need to prove we had a guilty suspect.”
“How public will that process be?”
“Pretty public,” Veta said. “Commander, the 717th has occupied one of the most famous spas on Gao. The newsmongers are as thick as flies outside, and they’re going to jump on any story that concerns your battalion or the Montero Vitality Center.”
Nelson’s gaze shifted away. “It couldn’t be helped,” he said. “But if we inflame the situation, everyone loses. We can’t let the battalion’s temporary presence here cause a larger confrontation—”
“Diplomatic fallout isn’t my problem,” Veta interrupted. “But timewise, you have some maneuvering room. The tribunal will need to investigate and prepare. You’ll have six months or so to wrap up your ‘research’ before the circus begins.” She paused and watched his eyes for any sign of deception. “That shouldn’t be a problem for you, right? Not unless you were lying to President Aponte about how long you’re staying.”
“No problem at all.” Nelson’s gaze re
mained steady and open. “We’ll be gone in six months, maybe sooner.”
“Depending on?”
“Depending on how long it takes to complete our research,” Fred-104 said, speaking from the dining hall behind them. “You have to watch yourself with Inspector Lopis, Commander. She’s clever, and she’s convinced she can’t do her job without knowing our mission objective.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Lieutenant,” Nelson said, continuing to look at Veta. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir.” Carrying the still-bagged body of Crime Scene Charlie’s second victim over one arm, Fred stepped into the kitchen and turned his faceplate toward Veta. “Where do I put Charlie Two?”
Before answering, Veta made a point of looking to Andera. “Will this do?”
Andera studied the room for a moment, then gave a theatrical sigh. “It will have to, I suppose.” She ran her finger over a steel shelf, then wrinkled her nose. “We’ll use field standards for analysis and keep duplicate samples for confirmation. Under the circumstances, the tribunal should accept that.”
“Then there’s nothing further to discuss.” Nelson motioned for Fred to put the body on the central island, then pointed toward a walk-in refrigerator on the far end of the room. “I had the remains from the other death scenes stowed in the cooler. It’s a tight fit, but there are still slots for the new bodies.”
Andera’s brow rose at the word bodies, and Veta felt her own eyes widening in surprise. She tried to conceal the involuntary reaction by nodding in approval.
“Good thinking, Commander,” she said. “How many slots did you save?”
“Just the two.” Nelson’s voice grew worried. “Please don’t tell me you found a third one today.”
“Not yet.” Veta glanced toward Fred, who was just laying the second victim from Crime Scene Charlie on the central island, then said, “In fact, this is the first I’m hearing about a second body.”
Nelson scowled in Fred’s direction. “The lieutenant didn’t tell you?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Why not?”
“Orders, sir.”
“Whose orders?” Nelson sounded more insulted than angry. “Someone in a position to countermand me?”
Fred turned his faceplate toward Veta, clearly suggesting he didn’t want to talk in front of her.
“Lieutenant, I asked you a question,” said Nelson.
Fred’s helmet snapped dead center. “Yes, sir. Major Halal wanted to document the new crime scene before allowing GMoP investigators to access it.”
“New crime scene?” Veta turned to Nelson, her anger boiling over. “Commander Nelson, I will not tolerate any tampering with my crime scenes. The more your people try to protect the UNSC’s reputation, the more they ‘inflame the situation’ here.”
“I apologize, Inspector,” Nelson said. “Major Halal was sent by FLEETCOM. He will have his own directives.”
“Which is your problem, not mine,” Veta said. “Whether FLEETCOM likes it or not, a string of murders like this draws attention. The villages and campsites out there are swarming with newsmongers—and you know who they’re blaming.”
“Of course,” Nelson replied. “We get BuzzSat, the same as everyone on Gao.”
“Then I’m sure you understand the need to close this case fast,” Veta said. “President Aponte may be a patient man, but his ministers are not. If the killings continue, the Cabinet will insist on action.”
“That would be a mistake,” Fred said. “We landed a single battalion because FLEETCOM wanted to limit the political fallout. But we’re well prepared to expand and hold the conflict zone—very well prepared.”
“Threaten me all you like, Lieutenant. I won’t be the one sending in the Wyverns.” Veta turned back to Nelson and sharpened her tone. “President Aponte knows that Gao can’t win this fight, Commander. But he can turn your mission into a combat operation, and he’s under a great deal of pressure to do just that. So, I suggest you start cooperating and tell me what’s going on down there.”
Fred stepped to her flank. “Now who’s making threats?”
“I am.” Veta kept her gaze fixed on Nelson. She already knew Fred didn’t have the authority to tell her what the 717th was fighting in the caves, but Nelson was a different story. “President Aponte isn’t the only one capable of making a grave mistake here, Commander. We all are.”
“I know that, Inspector.” He remained silent for a moment, then finally shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t reveal our mission.”
“Then just give me enough to understand what the Spartans are doing here,” Veta pressed. “The way it is now, all I can say is that the Spartans are here to provide ‘security,’ and that makes them look like my best suspects. Is that what you want me to report?”
Fred turned his faceplate toward Nelson. “Commander, I’ve already told Inspector Lopis—”
“That anything you’re here to protect me from doesn’t kill with close-range brute force. I heard you the first time.” Veta reached up and patted Fred on the chest armor. “But I can’t take your word alone for that, big guy. I need confirmation.”
Nelson frowned. “You think this Spartan is lying to you?”
“It doesn’t matter what Veta thinks,” Andera said. She was at the preparation island turned exam table, unzipping Charlie Victim Two. “The Spartans here on Gao are our prime suspects. So, Veta needs to confirm everything Fred says.”
“Prime suspects?” Nelson glanced over at Fred, then asked, “Seriously?”
Veta shrugged. “It’s still early,” she said. “But we know most of the victims suffered crushed bones and disjoined limbs. It takes a lot of strength to inflict that kind of damage, and that tends to limit our suspect pool.”
“I understand that.” Nelson looked more worried than ever. “But I hope you’re trying to expand that pool, Inspector.”
“I’m trying to avoid jumping to the same conclusions the newsmongers have,” Veta said. She glanced in Fred’s direction and shot him a cynical smirk. “But, so far, everyone I interview just keeps pushing me toward the Spartans. I’m starting to think that’s on purpose—that you’re all trying to hide the true killer because maybe our real suspect should be whoever—or whatever—brought you to Gao in the first place.”
“That’s not the case, I assure you.” Nelson fell silent for a moment, then said, “I can tell you this much about our mission: we are, indeed, running into some mild opposition. But for the sake of your investigation, I will disclose that the enemy’s only attack mode is a superheated stream of negatively charged ions that—”
“Commander Nelson,” Fred interrupted. “May I remind you of security directive Foxtrot—”
“A particle beam?” Andera blurted out, cutting off Fred’s objection. “Like one of those Covenant sniper rifles? Because I could see a Jiralhanae causing physical injuries like this, absolutely. Maybe even a Sangheili.”
“I wish it were that simple,” Nelson said. “But no. Nothing to do with the Covenant.”
“Commander Nelson,” Fred began, “this is against—”
“Objection noted,” Nelson snapped. “Now stand down, Lieutenant.”
“So, maybe our suspect would be a rogue soldier,” Veta suggested, continuing to press. “Maybe he’s using someone else’s Mjolnir armor?”
“Or an ONI agent with biological enhancements,” Andera added. She was following Veta’s lead, offering unlikely conjecture, so Nelson would feel compelled to correct them. “I’ve heard rumors that they can do that for Spartans—”
“It’s nothing like that, people,” Nelson said. “Not even close.”
“What, then?” Veta demanded. “I’m tired of playing guessing games, Commander. I have a job to do, and you’re not helping.”
Fred slipped between Veta and Nelson. “Sir, we need to speak alone. I insist.”
Without awaiting a reply, Fred stepped forward, backing Nelson out of the kitchen and into the dining room. The Spartan reached behind him a
nd slapped a hip switch on the wall, and a recessed door slid across the opening to separate the two rooms. Veta watched through the rectangular safety window until the pair stopped a few steps later.
“You think we might be pushing too hard?” Andera asked from the exam table. “That Spartan is getting awfully suspicious.”
“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.” Veta took half a step toward Andera, trying to adjust her angle so she could see past Fred’s shoulder and get a good look at Nelson’s face. It was no use—her view remained blocked by the Spartan’s armored bulk. “But what is he going to do about it? We have to ask questions.”
“Questions about the murders here,” Andera said. “We’re not supposed to be spies.”
Veta shrugged. “We’re homicide investigators. That gives us some leeway. If they hide it—”
“We find it, yeah,” Andera said, finishing the maxim. She rolled the corpse up on its side and began to slip off the body bag. “Let’s hope Commander Nelson sees it that way.”
Fred had seen Murtag Nelson’s eyes bulge out before, so he knew what was coming. In an effort to forestall the commander’s wrath, he began, “Sir, they could be spies.”
“Obviously,” Nelson growled. “And you think the Ministry of Protection has murdered eight—no, I’m sorry, make that ten—Gao citizens, just so we would grant access to Veta Lopis and her team?”
“Actually, that possibility hadn’t occurred to me, sir. But—”
“It occurred to me,” Nelson snapped. “Which is why I had everyone on that team vetted. They’ve all been with the Gao Ministry of Protection for years. The newest member joined five months ago. None of them has ever been in the military. And their IDs are solid—Wendell confirmed that using facial recognition and local media archives. President Aponte did not slip any spies into the mix, Lieutenant.”
